by Alix Nichols
Beneath me is a woman hotter and more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
Regardless of what she believes, she was made for sex with me.
Pressing the ball of my palm against her mound, I rub and slip a finger inside. She’s wet. Not soaked, but definitely wet. I pull my finger out and position myself at her entrance.
“I don’t have protection,” she says.
“Not to worry, I got a whole pa—” I begin, my gaze trained on the thatch between her legs, before I realize she’s hyperventilating.
I look up.
She swallows hard, clearly panicked, her eyes darting to the door.
Fuck.
“Bummer,” I say. “I don’t have any, either.”
The relief in her eyes makes my chest clench.
I roll off her and lie on my side. “That second guy you told me about… Did he rape you?”
“No,” she says. “Maybe. I don’t know. I did agree to have sex with him. I told myself it was bound to be better than the first time. But once we were naked, and he started groping me and kissing me… suddenly, I didn’t want it anymore.”
She searches my face as if her default assumption is that I won’t understand.
“Did you tell him you wanted to call it off?” I ask.
“Yes, but he wouldn’t listen. He explained later that he’d been too far gone by then. I couldn’t seriously expect him to be able to stop at that point.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I guess.” She furrows her brow. “I don’t know how men function.”
“Psychopaths aside, we function like humans,” I say. “Not savage beasts. If we want to stop when a woman says no, we can stop.”
I turn away and reach for my underwear on the floor.
She tugs at my arm. “Wait. I’m not saying no to… everything.”
I tilt my head to the side. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
She looks away, blushing.
If I were a true gentleman, noble in my heart and not just on paper, I’d let her off the hook at this point. I’d make suggestions and ask her to respond with a yes or no. But I’m too keen on hearing her talk dirty.
“Come on, Sophie,” I encourage her. “You can do it.”
She grimaces. “Do I really have to spell it out?”
“I’m afraid you do.”
“Oral sex,” she mutters under her breath.
I cup my ear. “Beg your pardon? Did you say something?”
She chews on her lower lip, looking utterly miserable.
I can’t believe how much fun it is to tease her.
“Oral sex,” she repeats louder. “I’d like some oral sex, please. If that’s OK with you.”
I struggle to keep a straight face. “Would you like to give me a blowjob or do you prefer that I go down on you?”
“You,” she whispers.
I push her legs apart and sit between them.
Suddenly, I don’t feel like joking anymore.
I bend down and nuzzle the insides of her thighs. Then I kiss her folds openmouthed, spreading her with my fingers. I give her a hard, long lick and dip my tongue in. She tastes like sex in its purest form. Sweet, spicy, addictive.
I probe her, pushing a little deeper with each thrust of my tongue. She begins to whimper. That’s all the encouragement I need to involve a finger, so I can lick her at the same time. Sophie’s whimpers turn into moans, and soon she’s writhing on the bed and gripping my hair.
My cock aches.
The temptation to shift so I can grind it against her, or—even better—so she could caress it is so strong I almost give in. But, in the end, I don’t budge. Tonight isn’t about me—it’s about Sophie.
Only her.
When I glance up at her face, Sophie’s eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open, and her cheeks flushed. So hot. Feeling her arousal bathe my finger in warm waves, I go harder, greedier, sucking and nipping at her flesh.
She tenses and spasms around me.
With a growl coming from a deep, previously unknown place in my chest, I lick her orgasm clean.
Then I stretch out by her side and gather her to me.
She gives me a heavy-lidded look, lifts her head, and takes my mouth in a smoldering kiss.
When she breaks it, I stare at her face. “Did you like your taste?”
“I did.” She grins. “Is that weird?”
“Not in my view, bébé.” I run my thumb over her lips. “Then again, my view is remote and unfocused right now.”
She gives me a quizzical look.
I open my arms and spread them like a bird’s wings. “Cause I’m flying.”
FOURTEEN
SOPHIE
I wake up to Oscar licking my face.
“Yikes, get off me, beast!” I shoo him away from my head, wiping my mouth, chin, and cheeks with the sheet.
Noah levers his body into a sitting position and nudges Oscar toward the edge of the bed. “Bad boy.”
Honestly, he could’ve put a little more heart into his admonishment. At least for show.
When the dog jumps to the floor, Noah turns to me, smiling. “Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“On Oscar’s upgrading you from harmless to lick-worthy.”
“Does he upgrade everyone so fast or should I feel proud and special?” I ask archly.
“Definitely proud and special.” He gives me a wink. “And not because of Oscar.”
“No?”
“He got nothing on me.”
“How so?”
His smile broadens. “When I first saw you, it took me less than ten seconds to upgrade you from harmless to lick-worthy.”
Memories of last night flood my brain, and I turn away, hoping he won’t notice my flaming ears. “Can I go to the shower first?”
“Of course.”
I roll out of the bed, kneel, and sift through the pile of clothes on the floor, looking for my underwear. I find my bra, but not my panties.
“Oops,” Noah says, leaning over the other side of the bed and prying my lacy boy shorts from Oscar’s mouth.
The garment is wet as he holds it up for me.
Seeing my hesitation, he balls it into his fist. “I’m—we—are very sorry about this. I’ll wash it.”
“I can’t go home commando.”
“May I offer you a pair of my briefs or Speedos?” he asks with a smile dancing in the corner of his mouth.
I jerk my chin up. “This is not funny.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I’ll have a word with Oscar.”
He jumps out of the bed, hunkers next to his dog and schools his features into a stern expression. “That was badly done, Oscar. Very bad.”
Oscar listens carefully, his big sad eyes locked on Noah.
“In this house, we don’t munch on our guests’ underwear without permission,” Noah continues, his tone falsely stern. “You should be ashamed of—”
Oscar rears up and gives Noah’s nose a happy lick.
Noah shuts up mid sentence, a grin breaking across his face.
I shake my head. “If that’s how you discipline him, I see why he does as he pleases.”
“Have you ever tried scolding someone while they’re licking your nose?”
“No, I haven’t.”
He pets Oscar. “Thought so. F.Y.I, it’s impossible.”
“If you say so.” I let out a resigned sigh. “Hey, I’ll take you up on your offer of underwear.”
He opens one of the drawers in the closet and rummages through its contents.
“This should do the trick,” he says, handing me a pair of stretchy boxer briefs.
I grab them and head to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I enter the kitchen. It smells of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries.
I point at the croissants on the table. “Microwave?”
He screws his face up in exaggerated affront. “Please. I bought them in the boulangerie
downstairs while you were in the shower.”
“Now I know why my friend Sue suggested I spend a night with a Frenchman,” I say before biting into a delicious roll.
“And why’s that?”
“This perfection”—I hold the croissant up—“with fresh coffee early in the morning. So worth all the hassle.”
His lips quirk as he points to the bottle of rosé from last night. “I’d say this was worth the hassle.
I cock my head. “You’re well informed about wines for an athlete who grew up in Nepal.”
“The French are born well informed about wines,” he says. “Ask your mother, if you don’t believe me.”
“I may not know much about wines,” I say, “But I do know a thing or two about vineyards.”
“How come?”
“We had a two-day workshop at the agency last week on vineyard property sales. I learned an awful lot.”
“Like what?”
“Like, whether the estate has a winery or only a vineyard, the type of grapes it grows, the age of the vines, their yield, if there’s staff already on payroll, and lots of other things. All of them affect the price of the estate.”
“I had no idea,” he says, looking impressed. “Would love to hear more.”
I smile, flattered. “Sure, but bear in mind I just had a crash course. There are specialized brokers out there who can immediately say if the estate is going to be profitable.”
“I think your knowledge will suffice for my purposes,” he says enigmatically.
Before I can ask him what he means, my phone wakes up in my purse, emitting Dad’s ringtone.
I answer it.
“Hey, Princess, I have great news,” Dad says. “Last night, Doug Thompson insisted we go out for a drink—”
“Our archenemy Doug Thompson?”
“Not anymore. He confessed he’s in love with you, can you believe it?”
“No,” I say.
“He’s been in love with you for years now,” Dad plows on, “and he’ll do anything for a chance to win your heart.”
I’m too flabbergasted to respond.
“If you and Doug hit it off, we could merge our two agencies and become an undisputed market leader. We’d have no rival in the Keys. We could develop the Parisian thing you started into a real agency, and—why not—open one in Miami.”
He’s so excited I can hardly believe my ears. “Dad, I—”
“You don’t have to say or do anything about it right now,” he cuts in. “I just wanted you to begin seeing Doug in a different light. If he’s no longer our competitor, he’s exactly what you want in a man.”
This conversation is getting way too sensitive.
“Can I call you back in ten minutes?” I ask.
There’s a brief pause before he says, “You’re not alone.”
“That’s right.”
“At eight in the morning,” he adds pointedly.
His voice is icy now compared to the warmth it bubbled with seconds ago.
“I’ll call you back,” I say and hang up.
Noah hands me a fragrant cup of coffee. “Drink this before you run away.”
I gulp down the contents and give him a smooch.
As soon I’m on the street, I dial Dad.
“You’ve met someone,” he says.
“Maybe.”
“Is he black?”
When did race become a factor?
“No,” I say. “Neither is Doug Thompson, last time I checked.”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
“Doug is a local, a native conch born and raised in Key West.”
“Is that a virtue?” I ask with a touch of sarcasm.
“Yes, it is,” Dad says. “It means he has roots here. It means he can put up with our summers, and he won’t run away after a few years to a cooler climate.”
Sheesh.
This is about Mom as much as it’s about Doug. I should’ve seen it coming.
“I take it he’s French,” Dad says.
“Yes.”
“Catholic.”
“He isn’t religious.”
“Even worse—an atheist.”
“I don’t think he’s an atheist—he just doesn’t give religion much thought. His passion is something else.”
“What?”
“Water polo.”
“Hmm. Is he a pro? Is he making good money?”
“Water polo isn’t like baseball or soccer. It doesn’t pay very well. That’s why he has a part-time job.”
“Doing what?”
I hesitate. Dad isn’t going to like this. Oh, well. “He delivers pizzas.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“You’re dating a pizza delivery man.”
I don’t comment.
He clears his throat. “Does your delivery man have a college degree?”
“Um… I don’t know.”
“So, basically, he’s a loser,” Dad says before adding, “Euro-trash.”
“Oh, come on!”
“He’ll pull you down, Sophie, can’t you see that?”
“Dad, I don’t plan on marrying him.” I pout in frustration. “Shouldn’t you be happy I’m finally dating someone?”
“You’re dating someone who lives in Europe and delivers pizzas. No, I’m not happy.”
“He’s a wonderful person,” I say, “and a gifted goalkeeper.”
I wish I could mention Noah’s additional gift that I discovered last night, but this is Dad, not Mom.
“A pizza guy.” He laughs bitterly. “Ain’t he a catch?”
I say nothing.
“What’s his name?” Dad asks.
“Noah Masson.”
“Just keep your head on your shoulders, Princess, will you?” Dad’s tone is placating now. “You’re young and inexperienced, and this Noah person… Can you promise me you won’t do anything rash?”
“No problem,” I say and we hang up.
Big problem, actually.
Despite Dad’s outright disapproval and my own misgivings, I may have crossed the red line already.
I may be falling for Noah.
FIFTEEN
NOAH
I stare at Diane’s latest missive while my mind processes what I’ve just read.
Dear Noah,
Jaqueline tells me you visited the chateau last week. That’s such good news! I shared it with Sebastian who didn’t comment, but his eyes lit up with renewed hope. Did the place bring back any childhood memories? Did it call to you? I want to believe it did.
Sidenote: I’m not usually this sentimental. It’s the baby blues. It’ll pass (fingers crossed).
Anyway, back to the reason I’m writing. Thinking about your visit to the estate made me realize something. Since you’ve been refusing to meet with Seb, or even Raphael, you may have never had a chance to hear Sebastian’s side of the story.
I’m going to give it to you in this letter, and you can do what you want with it.
Marguerite ran out of money and asked Sebastian to donate half a million to her charity shortly after your father passed. I believe you know that much. What you may not know is that the company was on the brink of ruin at that point.
Sebastian said no to her because he was investing his personal inheritance—every last cent of it—into Parfums d’Arcy. If he’d sent her the amount she was asking for, there was no chance he could save the company. Almost a thousand workers in France and abroad would have lost their jobs. I’m not saying it was the only factor in Sebastian’s decision, but it was a major one.
What would you do in his place? Would you forego the last chance to save the family business so you could help people in a foreign country? Maybe you would. But Sebastian chose differently. And his choice doesn’t make him a bad person.
Seb asked Marguerite if she could put her foundation on hold and volunteer for other nonprofits while he’s saving the business. She wouldn’t hear of it.
Two
years later, Parfums d’Arcy turned a modest profit. Your brother offered it to Marguerite, even though he was hoping to reinvest it into the company. She told him she’d found another solution, and no longer needed the d’Arcy money or his help.
So, there you have it—Sebastian’s side of the story.
On another note, we are all hoping to see you at Raphael and Mia’s wedding. Please come. It would be the best wedding present Raphael could dream of. Trust me.
Diane
I’m not going. When you cut someone off, there’s no point in doing it partially.
Do I believe her version of Sebastian’s side of the story? Could it be true? Is it possible that my brothers aren’t moved by greed alone? Was Sebastian really concerned about the fate of his workers? Did he really offer his first profit to Maman?
Have I been judging him too harshly?
As for Raphael, Maman always says he was too young at the time and too easily influenced.
Speaking of Maman, something in Diane’s letter bothers me more than the possibility I’ve been wrong to cut my brothers off. It’s the response Maman gave Seb when he finally offered some money.
She told him she’d found another solution.
This “other solution” could only be Pierre Sorrel, the foreign ministry official who helped Maman get French government funding that year, and the years that followed. The ultimate jerk who made her pay for his help with her body.
That’s what she told me the day I came home from school earlier than usual and saw him in our living room. He had his back to the door, ass naked, pants around his ankles. Maman was on her knees in front of him…
My hands ball into fists as I remember the scene.
What wouldn’t I give to unsee it! I was fourteen and Maman was my hero, a warrior for social justice, a saint. When Sorrel ran out, and she confessed that what I’d seen was the price she was paying to continue her work, I resolved to kill him. I spent countless sleepless nights plotting his murder to save Maman from his clutches.